Poem Dome: Getting Tough on Rhyme Crime

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sephiRoth IRA: Jun 13, 2007; "Science is not only compatible with spirituality; it is a profound source of spirituality."

-Carl Sagan

Gunfire Spa Day

it's pretty quiet
as I lay in my tub with the lights off
cops will be here soon

# ? Jan 24, 2020 23:49

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# ? May 28, 2024 12:01

cda: Jan 2, 2010; by Hand Knit

I was stoned and ate
The birthday candy basket
Sent by your parents

# ? Jan 25, 2020 01:33

sephiRoth IRA: Jun 13, 2007; "Science is not only compatible with spirituality; it is a profound source of spirituality."

-Carl Sagan

Pump bottle of lube
On the kitchen countertop
Where are the carrots?

# ? Jan 25, 2020 02:01

rickiep00h: Aug 16, 2010; BATDANCE

flerp posted:

week 8 judgement
winner goes to rickiep00h for having the best surreal poem. i lost the trail of this piece near the end, but the imagery and rhyhtm were spot-on and despite some of it not making sense, it was still a good ride.

Aw poo poo. :blush:

As for losing the trail, yeah, it's sort of a thing I do sometimes. It's something I try to avoid, and yet.

sephiRoth IRA posted:

Interprompt:

all your coworkers
drank all my jagermeister
you're alcoholics

# ? Jan 25, 2020 05:11

sephiRoth IRA: Jun 13, 2007; "Science is not only compatible with spirituality; it is a profound source of spirituality."

-Carl Sagan

Prompt prompt prompt

# ? Jan 25, 2020 05:15

rickiep00h: Aug 16, 2010; BATDANCE

Week 9: Haibun

A quick description stolen straight-up from Wikipedia: "A haibun may record a scene, or a special moment, in a highly descriptive and objective manner or may occupy a wholly fictional or dream-like space. The accompanying haiku may have a direct or subtle relationship with the prose and encompass or hint at the gist of what is recorded in the prose sections. ... Generally, a haibun consists of one or more paragraphs of prose written in a concise, imagistic style, and one or more haiku." (Emphasis mine.) Bashō the biggest proponent of the haibun form.

So! First, you write a prose poem bit. Then, you write a haiku bit that is related, in a way, to the prose poem bit. It's deceptively difficult to do well. I'm not going to give any parameters or prompting beyond the previous. (I will, however, suggest a single paragraph-ish-sized piece of prose and a single haiku stanza just to make it easier.)

Signups thru Jan 29 and submissions through Jan 31.

# ? Jan 25, 2020 05:39

sephiRoth IRA: Jun 13, 2007; "Science is not only compatible with spirituality; it is a profound source of spirituality."

-Carl Sagan

# ? Jan 25, 2020 05:44

Saucy_Rodent: Oct 24, 2018; by Pragmatica

# ? Jan 25, 2020 06:39

Anomalous Amalgam: Feb 13, 2015; by Nyc_Tattoo; Doctor Rope

# ? Jan 25, 2020 13:10

cda: Jan 2, 2010; by Hand Knit

# ? Jan 25, 2020 14:34

cda: Jan 2, 2010; by Hand Knit

We Decided to Get Drunk Instead of Hiking Up That Night

A day late, we are still in no hurry. The sun is up before we roll out of the tent, stinking of whiskey. It�s about twelve miles, all of it uphill or flat, to the old firewatch cabin at the top. Michael walks ahead on the steep parts, rugged switchbacks through boulders, trees dangling out over the edge. It�s overcast, not too humid, not too many insects. I hardly notice the hangover.

The forest opens in front of us, the sugar maple and yellow birch spaced quite wide between more boulders, as if a giant had flung a mountain up and this is how it had come down. It is quiet and cool and a mist hangs around the trail. Suddenly, a deer flies across the trail in front of us � we never see it touching the ground. It comes out of the mist on one side of the trail in the air, and it disappears into the mist on the other side without landing. There is no sound.

At the cabin, I get the wood stove going and look through a bookshelf with books people have left here. It starts raining in the afternoon and keeps up all night. Lying in the top bunk, I hear the telltale scratching of a little friend searching for food.

last March: the mouse made
a nest in the torn-up leaves
of The Dharma Bums

cda fucked around with this message at 04:09 on Feb 1, 2020

# ? Jan 28, 2020 22:46

rickiep00h: Aug 16, 2010; BATDANCE

Aw yiss, it begins.

Reminder that the signup deadline is tomorrow (11:59pm).

# ? Jan 28, 2020 23:17

sephiRoth IRA: Jun 13, 2007; "Science is not only compatible with spirituality; it is a profound source of spirituality."

-Carl Sagan

I've been sitting on mine for two days and just tweaking it. Haibun has been a lot of fun but I worry about the triteness, it feels real easy to tip over in that direction.

# ? Jan 28, 2020 23:26

sephiRoth IRA: Jun 13, 2007; "Science is not only compatible with spirituality; it is a profound source of spirituality."

-Carl Sagan

Sorry for the double post, but I owe crits and goddamn if I'm not ashamed they are nearly two months late. Boo this man. Boo.

Ode Week Crits
cda
The juxtaposition of the ye olde English feel and the crude content didn�t work for me. Honestly the content alone would have been enough to put me off; personally, I think odes should elevate the content, and with something as serious as solitude, I think you could have picked loftier goals and save this content for a limerick. You draw up a few interesting wordplays, but overall your execution was suboptimal. That said I did appreciate your commitment to your subject.

cda posted:

Ode to Solitude
I.
O Solitude! Thou allow'st me allow�st is awkward and clearly used to just jam in syllables
To Jerk My Pud where none shall see.
Upon my monitor, the porn
Uprises with the stiff'ning morn. Clever, but �uprises� is you trying to fit a word that has two syllables into that spot. This is a consistent problem throughout the poem. It�d be better to just pick simpler language than force words like you�ve been doing. Further, porn can�t really �rise� on your monitor, so your metaphor falls a bit flat.
I tastelessly consume too much
And do not miss a woman's touch.
Whilst She may screech that I am rude The capitalization of �She� here is weird.
You suffer me, O Solitude,
To pick my nose unto its core
And set my bedsheets in a roar, The comma is sort of floating here. Your punctuation has been a bit inconsistent.
Bold billowing clouds of fart expel
Where none can hear and none can smell.

II.
A day may pass thus senselessly
A mute wave on thy murm'ring sea
Or snowfall from th'Olympian ceilingOK, ENOUGH WITH THE FUCKIN APOSTROPHES, JESUS, also Olympian ceiling is a weird metaphor
Numbing foolish fellow-feeling,
For who would waft Ambrosial scents
Perceiving no rapt Audience? I had a tough time getting what you were aiming for with the first chunk of this stanza.
Your empty sky, I cannot draw.
Your sweetness, sugar in the raw.
On this vacation, our embrace
O Solitude, this bed's the place
I penetrate your Zero Zone,Like, yuck, but also these four lines are sort of pointless because they don�t convey anything about your relationship with solitude. How can solitude be sweet? Why does it matter you can�t draw the sky? Zero zone is also a little on the nose.
And even thou leav'st me alone.This line is nice because I really like that sentiment.

III.
The sensible inhabitants of Earth,
The ordinaries of the spinning Real,
May need t'affirm their dignity and worth ok, I�m back on board with the apostrophes because �t�affirm� is a ballsy play
By telling others what they think and feel.
They hold their wrists out waiting to be chained
And turn their faces from the streaming tide
Of teenage nymphos looking to be trained,
And never break the wind, and never ride
The oceanic void. They'll never know
Cold Ramen eaten by the crunchy brick.
Their mothers, wives, and girlfriends wouldn't go
For such shenanigans. It'd make them sick.
But in you, Solitude, I swell with pride,
Until I bust, as when groom first meets bride. I think you do an okay job here reflecting back the grossness of the strophe with the more contemplative feel of the second stanza. The �trained� line is particularly disgusting, btw.

Lofi
I really enjoyed the crowd/depth/teeming ocean feel you had going, leading to a nice pearl metaphor which I wish you would have explored more (see inline). This wasn�t a bad poem, but it lacked polish that kept it out of the upper echelons. I think if you tighten and refocus on the ocean metaphor and stick with that, it might be more effective.

lofi posted:

To Solitude

Crowds press like ocean depths.
Abyssal weight and eyes that bulge,
Fangs gape in unhinged mouths,
Bloated death-pale flesh shudders. Lost the thread a bit here- on board for crowd weight, bulging eyes and fangs sure, I hate crowds too, but the shuddering flesh is confusing.
In the cold currents
Where no light dares reach
A vortex of abominations
Mindlessly grasps for me. My main comment with the first stanza is that the language is a bit flat. �No light dares reach� and �mindlessly grasps� aren�t effective, and I think you could have done more with that space to extend on your metaphor of the crowd.

But oh! Here is my castle.
Alabaster walls to protect me
And an unbreachable lid closed tight,
To hold me safe inside its sculpted fist. You�ve got a few indications of strength here (castle, fist, etc.) and I think it doesn�t do you any favors to have them both. Also castles and fists tend to not have lids. I can get what you were going for, but the simple metaphor of the oyster would have been more effective.
And here, secluded within my shell,
I can finally become a pearl. I like this, that it�s the solitude that give you the space to be the pearl. Very cool.

The shrieking mob will never know Again, mixed metaphor here- I don�t really think of anything at the bottom of the ocean �shrieking�.
The calm of being still.
They writhe around and into each other,
I am discrete.
Their howling as they See above with the shrieking
Claw at my walls
Only proves me correct. I don�t see how it proves you correct. This last stanza would be improved if you ended it at �discrete�.

Thranguy
OK, I�ll admit it took a few reads and I still don�t know if I fully understand what you�re getting at, but I LOVED reading this out loud. It�s got a lot of really cool flow, assonance, alliteration, etc. Very musical. I think you captured the spirit of the ode with the language and the interplay between your stanzas, but subject issues kept you from the win.

Thranguy posted:

Real and Imaginary

We do not hold the adder to account,
Not celebrate the triumph of the tides. �Not celebrate� is a bit clunky. �Nor� would have worked better.
The choice of multiplying drops amount
Not to some chosen course of the mudslide

But praise, expound, the primacy of will
In human agency and rationed choice
We unmoved movers owning every whim. I liked this line. flowing language and a punch of meaning, very concise and efficient.

But we are meat, not shells that ghosts may fill.
Does that make every song just blind meat's voice?
Or does complexity compose the hymn? Complexity compose is a neat turn of phrase.

Armack, congrats on the win and good luck with the sub.

Djeser
It was hard to read this as an ode. It�s a poem that�s got some strength and weakness, but it didn�t necessarily (and I understand this is completely subjective) elevate nowhere for me. You get close in the second stanza, but as far as the poem in its whole, there wasn�t enough interaction between your stanzas� subjects to really hit what I wanted.

Djeser posted:

Nowhere

Step across the city line.
No, that's not enough.
Further, until the roads
Begin to lose their names,
Our names for them, until Some of these line breaks seem to happen in places that look random. It�s jarring and makes it hard to slip into the smoothness of nowhere that you�re discussing.
No one is left to insist on them,
Where the soil has never
Been told to whom it belongs,
Or has forgotten where
The edges of our thumbprint are. These last four lines needed some additional polish. The soil bit is fine, if also boring, but I think I missed the thread on the thumbprint bit.

Here's no place. Oh, we try
To name it, divide it,
But its pride is unmatched,
Because we can never create
Nowhere. The tree doesn't care
If we make shade of it,
The cliff stays unmoved no matter
How beautiful the view,
And there will be no rain checks
In case of inclement weather.The rain checks/inclement weather is clever, and I appreciated what you did in terms of lofting up the idea of nowhere in this stanza. This stanza did work.

Slip into nowhere. Feel it
In your spine and in your feet,
And wash the aftertaste
Of everything from your mouth. I don�t think these lines do anything for your poem. They were there but I didn�t get anything really meaningful out of them.
No place expects nothing.
You begin to lose your name,
Our name for you, now that
There is no place to insist on it. I liked the No place/insist on it lines. They were effective in helping me feel like I was there.
The world is flattened.
The sky is just above your head.
Here is nothing
But you and the world. I didn�t find the ending effective here. It�s nowhere, but now you�re talking about the world? Nowhere but everywhere? I think like lofi�s poem, you could end it early at �insist on it� and it would be an improvement.

flerp

This was a sweet poem. It was missing some of the expressive, lyrical language I was hoping for and was instead very matter-of-fact. I can obviously tell you loved this dog, and so in that way you were very successful. There are some really effective lines in here and some that were not-so-effective, and overall, I think if you trimmed this down some it might pack a bit more punch.

flerp posted:

To Sheila (I Named Her When I was Four)

The wait for your death was crueler
than your death. The lady at the front desk
smiled when we walked in, asked if the bundle
of orange fur wrapped in the red blanket was her,
as if you were an offering to some Mayan god. Mayan god offering is evocative, but it�s sort of orphaned here in the middle of the stanza and so it works less well
She sent me to a room with two chairs and
I held you close and felt each tug of your breath,
felt each struggling muscle pull your lungs up and down. Very vivid and effective.
It was a mercy, I had to tell myself, to cradle you
deep into my chest, because you were four pounds,
down from six, and that, if I wasn't here
you would be curled in that dog bed
next to the off fireplace, and it was summer
so we couldn't turn it on, even though during the winters
you would sit next to it for hours and bleed this heat
when I touched you. It was hard to not cry The line breaks are rough cuts and don�t seem purposeful, and these last few lines really ran together, diminishing their impact.
when you dug your head deeper into the blanket,
because I knew what this place was. I did manage
for a time to hold my breath and not cry.

It is winter now and you have been gone for months
and it feels like I am not supposed to be here
in this poem, writing of your death, as if the empty space
where you sat between me and the pillows
was supposed to be so easily filled. You are,
after all, a dog.
Can I tell you the truth? I cried when you died,
when I placed you on that operating table,
when the vet set that needle into your body,
when I moved your body and saw
how your eyelid struggled and resisted,
how the blanket was wrapped underneath your belly,
how your body was still warm but empty
and the vet said, "she's gone," and I didn't want to
but I kept crying and can I keep telling the truth?
I didn't cry when I was told my grandfather died. I hate critiquing what is very obviously an extremely difficult memory for you, but it reads like a diary entry. It�s very brutal and full of emotion, but it�s less an ode for those reasons.

You are gone and my mom threw out the beds you slept on
and got another dog who is white not like you
and barks not like you and shoves herself into my arms
not like you. When I feed the new dog, I do not have to tear
the meat because she has all her teeth not like you. It is winter
and it will be spring and then it will be summer
and there will be a divot in the grass where you used to sit
to sink in the heat of the sun. There are still days where I cry,
where I want to not cry, where I do not want to be
this person, crying over a dog, but I am
like a fireplace rolling smoke out of my eyes I wanted to see more of things like this. This was really moving to me as a metaphor.
and there was a time when you sat there in front of me,
soaked in all of that heat, and I miss those times
where I could say to myself
that when you died, I wouldn't have cried.

# ? Jan 29, 2020 09:00

rickiep00h: Aug 16, 2010; BATDANCE

Four entries this go-round:

sephiRoth IRA
Saucy_Rodent
Anomalous Amalgam
cda

We're now closed, and have til 11:59pm of the 31st. Good luck have fun.

# ? Jan 30, 2020 08:12

sephiRoth IRA: Jun 13, 2007; "Science is not only compatible with spirituality; it is a profound source of spirituality."

-Carl Sagan

Memorial

My mother died on Mother�s Day. At nine, I was deemed too young to attend her burial. I did not see the afternoon May sunlight dapple on the whorled marble of the garden mausoleum, or see her coffin placed into the cool darkness of her crypt. Today, I walk the gentle slope of manicured grass and trees to her tomb, guarded by the white peak of Mount Hood that stretches into the blue expanse above. I stop to replace her grave flowers with yellow and pink carnations. That same May sun warms my face like my mother�s touch once did, but the marble embossed with her name is cold beneath my hand.

Songbird choir heralds
my ascent. I am withered
like last year�s roses.

# ? Jan 30, 2020 08:42

Saucy_Rodent: Oct 24, 2018; by Pragmatica

A sun-soaked memory of a hike from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem

We came across ruins, not the ancient mosaic marble the tour guides had shown us, but crumbling white concrete. The map says this was an Arab village before 1948 but does not tell us its name; we can�t tell if it was bombed or simply abandoned and left to crumble. We take a moment to explore before climbing up the biggest building in the center of town. We lean on the domed roof and pull our pita and jerkies and dried fruits from our backpacks. There, atop the old mosque, we have a lovely little lunch.

The flowers growing
from the gravestones are mocking
the corpses beneath.

# ? Jan 31, 2020 02:15

Anomalous Amalgam: Feb 13, 2015; by Nyc_Tattoo; Doctor Rope

Introverted Gorges

We walked in silence, each of us searching for something ineffable on those winding canyon trails. Through swaths of wilted sunflowers and red sand basins, we crossed over mesa walls and blooded rock formations. Vast chasms holding history, lost hope and tourist attraction, we made simple lodgings under the stars. Among friends, truly good company, I still managed to feel alone, missing home and all that it held.

Home�s where the heart is,
Or so people have told me.
I have what I need.

# ? Feb 1, 2020 01:24

rickiep00h: Aug 16, 2010; BATDANCE

Okay, first off, winner is: Saucy_Rodent! Yay!

Crits, in chronological order:

cda
I'm mostly a fan of this poem; my only quibble with it is that it veers a little too far into telling than showing. I think I would have nibbled each sentence in half or so. There's some really great imagery, and the really lively bits get pulled down or lost in the less lively stuff. For example, I would have trimmed the second stanza to

quote:

The forest opens in front of us, the sugar maple and yellow birch spaced quite wide between more boulders~~, as if a giant had flung a mountain up and this is how it had come down~~. It is quiet and cool and a mist hangs around the trail. Suddenly, a deer flies across the trail in front of us ~~� we never see it touching the ground~~. It comes out of the mist on one side of the trail in the air, and it disappears into the mist on the other side without landing. There is no sound.

There's something that strikes me about the giant flinging a mountain up and the haphazardness of the landing, so definitely keep that in your pocket for one day. I'm just not sure it belongs in this poem. Finally, the haiku connects nicely, but I'm not sure either the prose or the haiku is necessarily integral to the other. I think you could have probably have nixed "a little friend" and just used "the search for food" and the slight redundancy could have been eliminated. Overall, though, an enjoyable and visual poem.

sephiRoth IRA
I don't think you needed to worry about being trite with this one, not quite. There's just a smidge of over-explanation, just enough to make me wonder how much is needed. I really enjoyed the use of paradox--Mount Hood vs. the sky, the sun vs the stone, heat vs. cold--and how those parallel the paradox of absence and presence. I like the interplay between the prose and the haiku, but I'm not sure I'm down with "Songbird choir heralds," because I feel like it's right on the edge of tipping into clich�. I like the audio image of songbirds and "my ascent," maybe something else for the verb. An emotional poem that reminds me a bit of Kenneth Rexroth's "Delia Rexroth" though obviously not as wide-ranging out of necessity and formal considerations.

Saucy_Rodent
Simple and evocative at the same time, I think this is exemplary of the form. It's not too concerned with telling us monologues or making its own meaning known, it's a moment of travel told well. The prose section has some pleasant moments of alliteration, which come and go without making themselves particularly obvious. Here, too, I enjoy the paradox of the marble vs. the concrete, of life vs death. Most of all, the image of a small group of friends eating lunch on the dome of a ruined mosque seems so basic and pleasant and human. Honestly, my only real complaint is with the choice of the verb "mocking," but the rest of the poem more than makes up for it, and I'm willing to go along with it for commitment to conceit.

Anomalous Amalgam
The biggest thing holding me back on this poem is that it goes abstract so often. Sticking with the concrete images is really necessary in the imagist style, and you end up explaining the metaphorical content of your images, which sucks the life out of them. I'm also not quite sure about how I'm supposed to feel about the speaker's overall emotional state, considering "missing home" contrasted with the haiku. The haiku, incidentally, is what feels the most authentic here, and with some pruning of the prose section, I think it would feel more earned, especially since the concrete images are so good.

Overall, great job by everyone. All of the imagery from everyone is so strong, and there's a definite feeling of aware in each, in good haiku/haibun tradition.

Congrats, again, to Saucy_Rodent!

rickiep00h fucked around with this message at 03:20 on Feb 2, 2020

# ? Feb 2, 2020 02:24

sephiRoth IRA: Jun 13, 2007; "Science is not only compatible with spirituality; it is a profound source of spirituality."

-Carl Sagan

My original haiku read

My mother�s roses
like the garden of my heart
are withered away.

But I thought it was too cliche as well. Thank you for the crit.

# ? Feb 2, 2020 03:00

Saucy_Rodent: Oct 24, 2018; by Pragmatica

Round X: Death poems

Write a poem about death or mortality. You may write in any style except free verse. There has to be some sort of rhyming or syllable stuff going on.

Due by 11:59 central on Feb. 7th. No due date to sign up.

Poets:

# ? Feb 2, 2020 05:07

sephiRoth IRA: Jun 13, 2007; "Science is not only compatible with spirituality; it is a profound source of spirituality."

-Carl Sagan

# ? Feb 2, 2020 05:33

rickiep00h: Aug 16, 2010; BATDANCE

sure, in

# ? Feb 2, 2020 05:49

flerp: Feb 25, 2014

# ? Feb 2, 2020 06:10

Anomalous Amalgam: Feb 13, 2015; by Nyc_Tattoo; Doctor Rope

# ? Feb 2, 2020 07:15

Maugrim: Feb 16, 2011; I eat your face

In.

# ? Feb 2, 2020 08:56

Anomalous Amalgam: Feb 13, 2015; by Nyc_Tattoo; Doctor Rope

Thanks for crit, rickie

# ? Feb 2, 2020 15:12

Azza Bamboo: Apr 7, 2018; THUNDERDOME LOSER 2021

I'll give poetry a whack why not

IN

# ? Feb 3, 2020 14:55

Azza Bamboo: Apr 7, 2018; THUNDERDOME LOSER 2021

A fountain pen in motion
Its words, in black, are still.
Yet, one day, the pen will stay
for words to move its will.

This poem was entitled �Write a Will, You Chucklefucks� by Azza Bamboo.

# ? Feb 3, 2020 15:51

Azza Bamboo: Apr 7, 2018; THUNDERDOME LOSER 2021

wait did I just hide a limerick in four lines

hahahahahahaha if your death poem doesn't beat an oddly formatted limerick I feel bad for you.

# ? Feb 3, 2020 16:05

sephiRoth IRA: Jun 13, 2007; "Science is not only compatible with spirituality; it is a profound source of spirituality."

-Carl Sagan

Azza Bamboo posted:

wait did I just hide a limerick in four lines

hahahahahahaha if your death poem doesn't beat an oddly formatted limerick I feel bad for you.

I mean, it's four-fifths of an unfunny limerick, which kind of runs against the whole idea of a limerick, but thank you for participating!

# ? Feb 3, 2020 17:33

cda: Jan 2, 2010; by Hand Knit

In

Also here is a link to an extremely good poem about death: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48422/aubade-56d229a6e2f07

# ? Feb 3, 2020 18:06

Maugrim: Feb 16, 2011; I eat your face

cda posted:

In

Also here is a link to an extremely good poem about death: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48422/aubade-56d229a6e2f07

You rear end in a top hat, now all I can think of is I will never write anything half as good so why bother.

Larkin is great.

# ? Feb 3, 2020 18:18

Saucy_Rodent: Oct 24, 2018; by Pragmatica

Just want to make this clear: I will be very liberal with what I consider �not free verse.� Just give me literally anything. A rhyming couplet at the end of a free-verse poem: good. Every other line starts with the same letter? Sure, fine. Just include some linguistic pattern, any at all, to any degree you want except none at all, and you�re golden.

# ? Feb 3, 2020 18:40

rickiep00h: Aug 16, 2010; BATDANCE

I'm planning on rolling with the Richard Hugo-approved "ten syllables who cares about stresses/accents" form, m'self.

# ? Feb 3, 2020 21:17

sephiRoth IRA: Jun 13, 2007; "Science is not only compatible with spirituality; it is a profound source of spirituality."

-Carl Sagan

rickiep00h posted:

I'm planning on rolling with the Richard Hugo-approved "ten syllables who cares about stresses/accents" form, m'self.

Dibs on Dickinson-style iambic tetrameter/trimeter

# ? Feb 3, 2020 21:20

arbitraryfairy: Feb 13, 2019

# ? Feb 5, 2020 00:12

cda: Jan 2, 2010; by Hand Knit

sephiRoth IRA posted:

Dibs on Dickinson-style iambic tetrameter/trimeter

*angrily crumples up a piece of paper with "Because I could not stop for Death" written on it*

# ? Feb 5, 2020 16:40

cda: Jan 2, 2010; by Hand Knit

Maugrim posted:

You rear end in a top hat, now all I can think of is I will never write anything half as good so why bother.

Larkin is great.

When in doubt if you read a poem that makes you feel this way, write a poem where you tell the poet they suck and their poems are terrible. Just lean into your envy

# ? Feb 5, 2020 16:42

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# ? May 28, 2024 12:01

Maugrim: Feb 16, 2011; I eat your face

Sorry

Sorry, kid: we can�t call Grandma
(Not tonight and not tomorrow, nor beyond,
And it breaks my heart you�re asking
With that dimple smile of which she was so fond.)

I know we saw her last month, kid
(And she cuddled you and rocked you while we ate
Never knew you stay so quiet, kid
Or to finish every mouthful from your plate.)

She won�t sing your favourite song, kid
(That�s the only way to make you take your meds
When the songs I sing are wrong, kid
And our clothes are stained and nerves are all in shreds.)

I�m not saying no out of spite, kid
(And it�s taking all the patience that I�ve got
To not react to that bite, kid,
To make soothing sounds and clean up all the snot.)

I can�t make you understand, kid
(Even though we had the funeral today
You mostly wanted to run off, kid
And you thought that everyone was there to play.)

Sorry, kid: we can�t call Grandma
(And drat the picture on the pamphlet on the pew
That made you remember Grandma
When she will nevermore remember you.)

# ? Feb 6, 2020 23:33

The Something Awful Forums > The Finer Arts > Creative Convention > Poem Dome: Getting Tough on Rhyme Crime

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